


doing life with me

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Beaches, Coming Out, Family, First Time, Gay Dean Winchester, Hotels, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Season/Series 11, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:54:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28227222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: He remembers the rules. The same rules set by the most beautiful drag queen in all of Alabama, spoken to him while he hid his tear-stained face, cowering on the grimy floor of a rest station bathroom: don’t talk; don’t ask for money, because most of the time, they won’t pay him anyway; don’t cry; don’t let them kiss him; and most importantly, don’t get attached.For the first time in two decades, Dean breaks the cardinal rule—and opens his mouth. “I’m too old for this.”
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 22
Kudos: 213





	doing life with me

He remembers the rules. The same rules set by the most beautiful drag queen in all of Alabama, spoken to him while he hid his tear-stained face, cowering on the grimy floor of a rest station bathroom: don’t talk; don’t ask for money, because most of the time, they won’t pay him anyway; don’t cry; don’t let them kiss him; and most importantly, don’t get attached.

For the first time in two decades, Dean breaks the cardinal rule—and opens his mouth. “I’m too old for this.”

In the past, someone would’ve slapped him. Wouldn’t yanked him in by his hair and choked him until he gagged, just for doing something _queer_ like saying he liked it or having a personality that wasn't a sentient glory hole. Thankfully, this guy—twenty-five at his earliest, exhausted but still with a glimmer of hope in his eye—sighs and agrees with a nod. “Honestly? I’m not even into this.”

On straining knees, Dean stands and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The guy—Jim, maybe, or Wyatt. He looks like a Wyatt—tucks himself back into his jeans, half-hard and quickly softening. He hadn’t even been hard to begin with, but Dean likes a challenge—but some people, he’ll never be able to please.

“I mean, I got a girlfriend,” probably-Wyatt says, buckling his belt. He runs his hands through his short-clipped hair, the same ones that had been buried in Dean’s minutes before, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull or shove him away. “I’m just—I’m tryin’ to figure somethin’ out.”

“No, I get it,” Dean says. He sees part of himself in Wyatt’s eyes, the part that’s never left—and the reason why he’s here now, with bass thumping through the walls and a stagnant toilet to his side. Years ago, this was a means to an end, a way to make quick cash that didn't end with the cops dragging him downtown for the night. Sure, a john or two slapped him around after, or pulled a knife, but it was always worth it.

Had been worth it, a long time ago. Now, his thirty-eighth birthday is next month, and Dean is spending his time in the bathroom of a leather bar in Tulsa with the world’s most confused straight guy.

“Just—It’s not you,” Wyatt sighs. “She thinks it’s weird I like having my ass played with. Keeps calling me a fuckin’—queer or some shit. No offense.”

Dean shrugs. He needs a beer and for someone to hit him over the head with a shovel. “I think you’re better off without her,” he says and pats Wyatt’s shoulder. “Look, even if you are into dudes, some guys don’t like blowjobs.”

Wyatt sniffles. “What, so I should just jump straight into getting railed to see if I’m into it?”

“No.” Dean shakes his head, squeezing Wyatt’s arm. His jacket still smells new, black leather that’s barely been broken in. For special occasions then—or to fit in with the crowd. “Whatever you’re into, that’s up to you to figure that out. Trust me, jumping into the deep end ain’t the way to go right now.”

Slowly, Wyatt lets out a breath, then wipes his eyes. He doesn’t need to know the rules—Dean knows he won’t be here again. “Yeah.” Wyatt claps his shoulder. “C’mon. Least I can do is get you a shot.”

“Make it a double,” Dean huffs a laugh, and Wyatt offers a smile.

“Hey.” Wyatt bumps their elbows. “How many guys did you suck off before you knew you were gay?”

Gay—He’s not gay. Only, as the word rattles around in his brain, it doesn’t feel wrong. He doesn’t recoil, not like he did in his twenties when he could barely admit to himself that he actually liked sucking cock and getting fucked into the mattress wasn’t purely out of desperation. If anything, it… fits.

 _Oh no_.

-+-

The Budget ZZZZ Motel has probably seen better days, with its yellow brick exterior and red shingled roof. Fishing the key from his pocket, Dean unlocks his room and shoulders his way inside, a pizza box in his hands and a two-liter under his arm. Not the finest of dining, but better than nothing, especially in a town this small. Two double beds sit flush against the wall, barely a foot from the dresser on the other side of the room. Small is an understatement; a closet is probably bigger than this. At least there, he would have room to walk to the bathroom without tripping over a power cord or the carpet bubble on the floor.

“Dinner’s up,” Dean says, kicking the door closed. The picture frame on the wall rattles, and Castiel looks up from one of the beds, his skin cast yellow in the fluorescent light of the nightstand lamp. Outside, snow falls, and even with the portable heater running in the corner, Dean still shivers as he strips out of his coat.

Castiel helps him by taking the two-liter, hopping off the mattress to come back with two Styrofoam cups from the bathroom. Kneeing his way onto Castiel’s bed, Dean plops the box between them and backs into the headboard. His spine twinges, knees aching; even after two shots, he still can’t get the taste of shame out of his mouth.

“I did something stupid,” Dean admits once Castiel comes back, handing Dean a cup.

“I thought you were checking the morgue,” Castiel says. He pops open the box and takes a slice—not because he needs food, but just because he can. Part of going through the motions, like wearing pajamas and socks, only because it’s supposedly more comfortable than his normal getup.

If anything, Dean likes looking at him like this, likes seeing him more… human. Less imposing and more like the man Dean admires. Maybe a little too much. “After that. Which, by the way, I don't think it’s a wraith.” He takes his own slice, folding it in half and devouring nearly half of it in one bite. Mouth full, he continues, “Hole in their necks? Where someone bashed them over the head with a fireplace poker and got them with the hook.”

Castiel winces. “So we drove here to investigate an actual homicide?”

“Looks like it.” Dean takes the two-liter and balances the cup in his lap, managing to pour himself a drink without soaking his pants with Coke. He swallows a sizeable amount before coming up for air; carbonation tickles the hairs peppering his upper lip. “Kinda hit up a bar on the way back.”

Castiel lifts a brow. “How do you ‘kind of’ visit a bar?”

 _Because I was horny_ , he could say. Castiel deserves to know the truth, though, however sordid it is. “Sign out front said half off shots, and I thought I’d hustle my way into some free booze,” Dean starts. Simple enough. Only, Castiel doesn’t buy it, based on the furrow of his brow. “Y’know what, fine. I had a _craving_ , if you catch my drift.”

A red flush heats Castiel’s cheeks, just barely. “So you went to a bar to…”

“Hook up, yeah.” Dean glares down at the pizza and bites into the rest of his slice. “Only, the guy chickened out, so I got dinner and drove back.”

Humming, Castiel turns his eyes to the television, where a panel of judges rate just how well a bunch of kids made cupcakes. “Thank you for telling me,” he says, then looks at Dean. “But what brought this on?”

Dean shakes his head. He eats while he gathers the words together, struggling to string them into a coherent thought that doesn’t sound like he’s lost his mind, or having a mid-life crisis. “Am I gay?”

That catches Castiel’s attention. Placing his slice back in the box, Castiel faces him, mindful of the bottle sitting between them, cap screwed on. “Did someone say something to you?”

“No,” Dean blurts, then backtracks. “I mean, yeah, but not like they started calling me names or anything. Just…” He stops, pinching his eyes shut. “This guy—never exactly learned his name—asked me when I knew I was gay. And I’m not—I don’t think…”

“Dean.” Castiel places his hand over Dean’s knee—not rubbing, but just touching him, focusing his attention elsewhere. “Even if you are, that changes nothing about you. You don’t have to come up with a decision right now.”

“But it’s gonna bother me if I don't.” Sighing, Dean shoves the rest of his slice in his mouth, chewing like it personally offended him. “Look, I… I spent way too many years trying to rationalize the shit I did in truck stop bathrooms. Means to an end, and all that, I had to make cash somehow, or else Sam would’ve starved and dad would’ve put me in an early grave."

Anxious, he rubs his knees. They still have a few hours to Lebanon, but part of him doesn’t want to go back, the part of him that can’t parse through his thoughts and put a pin on exactly who he is, even after all these years.

Castiel’s grip tightens ever so slightly on his knee, his fingertips dipping into the bend. “Are you scared?”

At least that, Dean knows the answer to. “I’m never not,” he says, looking down. “But about this? I—I never told Sam what I did. About how after a while, I started _liking_ it. It’s… different.” All of the women he’s been with have been softer, but feisty, pushing him around in their own way. With men, they can hold him down just like he wants, can pin him to the mattress and have their way with him. The differences are jarring—and the older he gets, the more Dean leans toward the one thing he always was taught was _taboo_ and _disgusting_. What would John think of him now?

“Can I tell you something?” Castiel asks.

Looking over, Dean can’t help but notice the softness of his expression, how utterly blue his eyes are in the lamplight. Castiel could tell him that he’s a serial killer, and Dean wouldn’t care. Fondness tugs at his heart, and his hands itch to touch, to reach out and run his fingers across Castiel’s cheek, to touch the swooping lines of his eyelids. “Yeah,” Dean croaks, then clears his throat. “Yeah, anything.”

Castiel sucks in a breath, then lets it out, scooting closer. Their knees touch; Dean swears he feels a spark. “I’m not your brother, Dean. I’m not your father. I’m not anyone that would look down on you for what you’ve done or who you’ve done it with.” His touch roams, and he settles his hand over Dean’s thigh. Intimate, but nowhere near sexual. Dean’s dick, though, doesn’t catch the memo, and his chest heats just thinking about if Castiel moved about three inches closer… “You’re safe here, Dean. With me.”

He knows—objectively, Dean knows Castiel would never tell a soul about anything they discuss in private, but even then, hearing it from his own lips, overwhelms him in shame. Angels shouldn't keep secrets, and they shouldn't be okay with whatever Dean is. “Thanks,” he says by way of a reply. “If I… You’re still gonna be here, right? If I ever get my head out of my ass?”

A small smile upticks Castiel’s lips. “I promise, I don’t have any plans to leave.”

All the answer Dean needs. All the answer he’s ever needed, and then some.

-+-

Dean’s second kiss was with his best friend.

Freshly seventeen and terrified, Dean kissed Amos under the bleachers of his high school in Des Moines, hands shaking, heart in his throat. And worst of all, Amos kissed him back, the hairs of his mustache tickling his lip. He tasted like cigarettes and bubble gum, and held Dean so tenderly, despite the calluses on his fingers and bite to his words. For all Dean knew, Amos was straight, quarterback of the football team, and everything John wanted Dean to be. But standing there, sun bleeding through the slats and the rest of their class half a field away, Dean knew that something was wrong.

Somewhere along the way, someone crossed one of his wires, the one that told him that men were meant to be strictly platonic company and women were to be treasured and adored. Not the other way around—not like Dean wanted them, back then and today.

John found them at the motel that night—Dean on his knees and Amos with his pants down. After that, John kept him on a choke chain, and almost two decades later, Dean still bears the scar to the back of his head, where if he cuts his hair too short, it shines through. Whatever happened to Amos after that night, Dean doesn’t know. They left the following morning, and Dean lost his favorite bracelet to the first boy he thought he might’ve had a chance with.

Lying in bed, Dean faces the window and stares out at the parking lot. Not a soul in sight, but a heavy snow falls, blanketing the pavement. The Impala sits in her spot, white gathering around her tires. If they make it home tomorrow, it’ll be a miracle.

From the other bed, Dean hears the faint rustle of pages turning every few minutes, the soft noise of Castiel breathing. No appliances whine, no neighbors bang on the walls, no faucets leak. Utterly, annoyingly quiet. Nights like this, Dean feels the most anxious, even with Castiel in the room. Four walls surround him, and he might as well be lost in the woods, paranoid of every sound, every breath that isn’t his own. Because somewhere out there, death is watching, waiting for him to slip up.

But Dean isn’t there. He’s here, with Castiel less than three feet away, and somehow, that terrifies him more than any monster ever could. Because Castiel is tangible and real, and Castiel touches him like he matters, looks at him like he might be the most beautiful person on the planet. And Dean has wanted him for more years than he cares to count. An angel, one of God’s soldiers—way out of Dean’s league.

 _This is what people get sent to Hell for_ , he thinks, blinking away the tears.

After a while, Castiel’s breathing evens out and the pages settle—and the bed dips at Dean’s back. Flailing, Dean flings an arm, only to find Castiel kneeling at his side, the covers pulled away. The world freezes—Castiel blinks down at him, and Dean stares right back, pulse rabbit-quick in his throat. “What,” he starts, but Castiel moves, sliding under the sheets. An arm wraps around his waist, pulling him close until all Dean feels is the soft press of cotton against him, sleep pants brushing the hairs dotting his legs.

“You’re distressed,” Castiel states the obvious. A palm presses below his navel, dangerously close to his waistband. Dean swallows and struggles not to scream. “Dean…”

“’m fine,” Dean lies. One day, he’ll learn how to control his tongue before he speaks. “Just tired.”

Behind him, Castiel hums and tucks an arm under Dean’s pillow. Warm breath splays across his nape, and nimble fingers tease the trail of hair leading into his briefs. How Castiel manages to keep something so innately intimate so chaste is a question Dean can't bring himself to ask. “Thought you were reading,” he says instead, turning his face to the window.

“I was,” Castiel says, quiet. “There’s only so many times I can read about women falling for men with no personality.”

Dean snorts and palms his face. “Been there. Dove headfirst into Lisa’s paperbacks, didn’t think I’d ever be able to look our neighbor in the face again.” He looks over his shoulder—or tries, at least—one blue eye the only thing he sees. “Looked exactly like all those guys on the covers. Y’know, short hair, spent too much time at the gym, didn’t know how to wear a shirt.” He laughs and turns away, hiding his face. “He ran the rodeo circuit.”

Softly, Castiel chuckles. “Did you have sex with him?”

“Jeez.” Wheezing, Dean pulls out of Castiel’s grip and sits up. Not a discussion he can have while another man is touching him, especially Castiel. At his side, Castiel leans up on one elbow, the collar of his shirt slouched end exposing his chest. Maybe he’s wrong—maybe he can’t have this conversation at all. “You really wanna talk about this?”

“I’m trying to understand more about you,” Castiel says. Lazily, he tugs at Dean’s shirt sleeve, urging him onto his back. “I’m aware of your interest in the same sex, and that you’ve never gotten the chance to talk about it with anyone. I’m willing to listen.”

Dean considers him, blinking up into the ocean of Castiel’s eyes. Gently, he brushes his knuckles over Dean’s cheek, drawing forth another blush and a bitten-back whimper. “Don’t tell anyone,” he pleads, and Castiel nods. “His name was Austin. He came home one day in his truck, and Lisa and Ben were out at her parents for the weekend. I’d just finished mowing the lawn and he came over, invited me in for a drink.” Flushed, he turns his head, hoping that Castiel doesn’t see the heat burning just beneath his skin. “His wife was at the mall. Hell of a coincidence.”

Castiel nods along. With some maneuvering, he turns Dean onto his side, tucking his arm underneath his head once again. A hand settles over his navel. Their legs tangle, and Dean shudders. Too close—not enough. “Go on,” Castiel says, his fingertips dancing a slow rhythm above his waistband.

 _Bad, bad, bad_. “He had this smell on him, like he’d been out in the fields all day. Just—sweat. And I just remember thinking, this is out of a sleezy porno, where he’s the desperate housewife and I’m the pool boy.” A breath. Dean fists the bedspread, twisting it. “I’d met him before, at a block party. We’d watch the game in his basement sometimes, or we’d take Ben and his kid rock climbing or… whatever.

“Anyway. Point is, he gets me a drink. Real expensive whiskey, the kinda shit I couldn’t afford. So we get to talking, and he kinda just… starts touching me. Not in a creepy way,but flirty, y’know, the kinda shit girls do when they’re letting you know.” Castiel breathes against his nape. Dean sucks in air, letting the memory wash over him. “He kissed me. Backed me up against the counter and went for it. And all I could think was, Miranda’s gonna get home, and she’s gonna catch us.”

“But she didn’t,” Castiel assumes.

“No.” Another breath. A rush of heat floods to his cock, dangerously close to filling out in his briefs. _I shouldn't be doing this_ , he thinks, but Castiel doesn’t stop him when he reaches down to palm the front of his underwear. “Took me to their room and threw me on the bed. He was just—solid muscle. Like he could hold me down and do whatever he wanted to me, and I’d let him.”

Heatedly, Castiel whispers into his ear, “What did he do?”

 _Fuck_. “Austin, he—” Dean swallows, pulling his hand away. _Not now_. “He was rough. But I liked that, liked having someone touch me like that. I hadn’t—I never had sex with Lisa. It was just him.”

That’s a discussion for another day. Thinking about what happened all those years ago will only sour the mood, and thankfully, Castiel doesn’t push. Instead, he breathes against Dean’s neck, scalding as he teases the waistband of his briefs.

“He never kissed me,” Dean goes on, chewing his lip. His cock twitches, but Dean refuses to indulge himself. “Kinda made it a point not to. But I didn't care, ‘cause that’d mean I’d have to stop looking at him. He was hot, man, I had fantasies about his chest for years. Wanted to touch him so bad, but he held me down and just—”

Castiel’s hand slips under his shirt. Dean moans, breath caught. “He didn’t treat you like you should be treated,” he says. What would Castiel know about that, anyway? “He didn't respect you.”

“Yeah.”

Dean pinches his eyes shut, trying to call forth the memory. He remembers the heat of it, of Austin’s eyes when he pinned his wrists into the expensive sheets, of Austin’s hips when he finally shoved in and took what he wanted. And Dean let him, got off on being held down by someone stronger than him, someone with a bigger cock and who knew how to use it. He came twice, once when Austin shoved in, and after, when he wandered home and stood under the shower for a good thirty minutes, trying to forget everything that happened. Not that it sucked—in that moment, Austin was everything he wanted—but thinking about it, Castiel is right.

Austin didn't care. Austin wanted another hole to fuck, and Dean was the only person willing.

All at once, the heat dissipates, and Dean acutely notices the warmth of Castiel’s hand, now returning to its original placement over his navel. In his briefs, Dean’s cock flags, unattended. “I’m tired.”

Nuzzling Dean’s neck, Castiel pulls away, just far enough to keep Dean comfortable. Dean laments the loss, but revels in Castiel’s steady breaths against his skin, their cold toes brushing under the sheets. This—this is what Dean wants, something he’ll never be able to admit. “Sleep,” Castiel rumbles, settling into the sheets. “I’m here.”

 _I know_ , Dean thinks. Against his better judgment, he covers Castiel’s hand, and falls asleep to Castiel’s fingers sliding between his own.

-+-

The snow thankfully lets up the next day, but not for long. In the early morning hours, Dean and Castiel pack up their belongings and hit the freshly plowed highway before the next wave can hit. Despite the heat of last night, sitting behind the wheel is… comfortable, even with Castiel in the passenger seat. A series of what ifs cross his mind, about what if Dean finished the story, describing in vivid detail how it felt like Austin fingered him, about what if Dean got off while Castiel held him—about what if Castiel got him off instead, wrapped that big hand around his cock and tugged.

But none of that happened. At most, Castiel touched his nipple, but that was it. And Dean got the best sleep of his life, wrapped in the arms of an angel, like a corny song lyric or that one paperback he refuses to admit he owns.

In the wake of what could’ve been, Dean is… happy. Because Castiel listened—because Castiel cares.

“Why didn’t you sleep with Lisa?” Castiel asks, and Dean seriously regrets opening his mouth.

He manages to not slam on the brakes, solely because a BMW has been riding his ass for the last few miles, and he refuses to go over the speed limit with the amount of snow that’s blowing onto the highway. “That’s what you’re thinking about?” Dean asks, watching Castiel out of the corner of his eye. “I got plowed by a straight dude, and you’re thinking about Lisa?”

“You cared about her, obviously,” Castiel says with a shrug. He slouches in his seat, rolling his shoulders. “But you’ve never mentioned her, especially… after.”

After. One of the biggest regrets of Dean’s life, but he moved past it. He moved on, just like she did, albeit against her will. _She’s better off without me, anyway_. “We… We tried,” he says. He squeezes the steering wheel, then smooths his hand across the leather in apology. “I couldn't get it up, so I ate her out whenever it wasn’t working. I was… Back then, I was messed up, Cas. Sam was gone, and I was trying to be what I thought I wanted. The doting husband-type, a father to Ben, blissful in suburbia. But the more I thought about it, the more it didn't… work.”

For a while, Castiel sits in quiet, the only noise that of the static breaking through the radio stations. Hank plays through the speakers, turned down low, grainy. “You know I would’ve stayed,” he says, eventually, his voice just as quiet. “Had I known the state of Heaven at the time, I would’ve stayed with you. In the end, I’m not sure any of it was worth it.”

 _It wasn't_ , Dean thinks. The rise of the leviathan, the death, suffering—none of it was worth it, in the end. But they’re in a good place now, or at least, he hopes they are. God and Amara are gone, and at home, Sam and Mary—his own flesh and blood mother—wait for their return. “You didn't know,” Dean says with a sigh. “Neither of us knew. We were just trying to… get on with our lives.”

“That’s still no excuse.” Castiel glares at the cloth ceiling. After a moment, he closes his eyes, the anger easing from his features. “That was a long time ago.”

“Yeah.” Dean rubs the bridge of his nose. The coffee from the motel office sits in the cupholder on the floorboard, cold; he has half the mind to chug it, just to get some life back in his veins. “Tired of living in the what ifs, man.”

Castiel doesn't speak for another few miles. In the interim, Dean listens to the weather report on the radio and watches the snow, now driving sideways and threatening to shift the Impala into another lane. Another hour, and they can hunker down through the worst of it, if they make it that far. Right now, the ditch has Dean’s name carved into it in the shape of his tires.

“I meant what I said, last night.” Clearing his throat, Castiel sits up straighter. “That if you wanted to talk, I’m here. You’re… not exactly alone, in your thinking.”

 _Huh_. So angels aren’t really that different from humans, at least when they want to be. “I figured with the whole… angel thing, you weren’t really into anyone.”

“It’s more complicated than you’d think,” Castiel says. The corner of his lips lift, barely there before it’s gone. “Angels inherently don’t have a gender, nor do we have a sex drive. That doesn't mean we can’t if we don’t want to. I inhabit a male body, and I’m interested in men.” Another smile, this one softer, sad at the edges. “But my circumstances are different. I haven’t lived your experience as a human, but in a way, I feel like we share some of the same struggles. In the eyes of Heaven, I deserved to die because I cared for someone, because my Grace is bound to another man. I was betraying those who I called my family, and they punished me for it, in more ways than I care to remember.”

Blinking, Dean takes his eyes off the road. “Who’re you bound to, Cas?”

To that, Castiel doesn’t answer. His gaze grows distant; Dean doesn’t hear a word from him for the rest of the drive.

-+-

The power begins to flicker around midnight, and impossibly, through the thick concrete walls at least a story underground, Dean swears he hears the wind howl. The forecast called for a foot of snow at the least, but he apparently missed the part about blizzard conditions overnight and into the next day. He and Mary stocked up the moment they arrived home—meanwhile, Castiel locked himself in his bedroom, and only came out with the promise of food.

But now, Dean stares up at the ceiling and watches the lights underneath the door fade in and out. At one point, the entire system shuts down and powers back on after the generator kicks in. Wherever this generator is, he hopes it holds out until morning.

As the night moves on and Dean drifts in and out of consciousness, the caverns of the Bunker grow colder, and Dean shivers under his blankets, curling into himself for warmth. The third time he wakes—around three, according to the clock on the wall—he finds a body huddled in close, an arm around his middle and their legs tangled. Dean knows those legs, knows the eerily even breaths even better than his own.

“You just gonna make a habit of crawling into bed with me?” Dean asks, flipping around in the circle of Castiel’s arms. Face to face, he finds Castiel’s eyes in the dark, the hard lines of his jaw, the dip of his chin. This close, with Castiel’s lips only a mere few inches away, all Dean wants to do is kiss him.

Just as exhausted as Dean feels, Castiel turns his face into the pillows, letting out a long, haggard breath. “You told me a story,” he says, eyes shut. “Can I tell you about the only man I slept with?”

He slept with—Castiel slept with another man? And when? “Yeah,” Dean says, steady as he can muster. “Whatever you want.”

For a few minutes, all Castiel does is breathe. Dean follows right along with him, aware of how Castiel fits his hand between Dean’s shoulder blades, wringing the fabric of his nightshirt. “After you died, when Metatron killed you… I lost my purpose. I felt, without you here, I didn’t have a reason. My Grace was failing, and most days, I couldn’t make it out of bed. I… I knew you were alive. I could feel the faint thrum of your soul, but it didn't reach out, not like it does now.”

Dean’s heart skips. Very rarely, if ever, has Castiel mentioned the time between when Dean first died to the moment they restrained him in the Bunker. But Dean always suspected. Hyped up on smoke and sulfur and sin, he always felt something tugging at him, frail as it was. The sadness, the loneliness there—it all makes sense now.

“I went to a bar, one night,” Castiel whispers. “He didn’t give me his name, but he reminded me of you. He had your eyes.”

“Sappy,” Dean murmurs, and faintly, Castiel smiles.

“We talked, for a while. He said he was passing through, and I had nowhere to be. I rented a room that night, at the motel across the street, but it smelled like you. Like all of the places we stayed in, the cheap air fresheners and stale coffee, the floral fabric softeners. He invited me to his room at a motel a few blocks down, and I went with him. I didn’t expect him to kiss me when we got inside, but I could feel the loneliness on him. He needed someone to touch him, and I needed the distraction.”

Throat dry, Dean nods along. Part of him doesn’t want to know the answer—the morbidly curious other half, though, takes the lead. “What’d you do?”

Slowly, Castiel sighs. “I let him touch me, for a long time. I felt like it wasn’t exactly sex that he wanted, but someone to listen to him. He liked touching my face.”

Unbidden, Dean reaches up and runs the backs of his fingers across Castiel’s cheek, curling around his ear; Castiel’s eyes snap open, terrified. “Like that?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Castiel replies, hoarse. He gathers himself, all while Dean continues to pet his cheek, down to his jaw and the warm expanse of his neck. His shirt dips open, and Dean touches his collarbone, the hard jut of bone realer than Dean expected. “The sex was unremarkable, unfortunately. I never came, and he fell asleep halfway through—Why are you laughing?”

Dean can’t stop. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t stifle the laughter bubbling up from his chest. “No, no, I’m sorry,” he wheezes. Castiel tugs at his shirt. Barely visible, Dean watches the corner of his eyes soften, his lips tilted into the quietest of smiles. “Just—been there. Sorry your first time sucked so bad.”

“It wasn’t terrible.”

Chuckling, Castiel reaches up and takes Dean’s wrist, pulling him away—only to press Dean’s hand over his heart, where it beats, slow, steady. They normally don’t get this close, aside from rare hugs and lingering touches. And never before has Dean taken the chance to actually touch Castiel in return, to feel just how warm he is, how his heart beats and his lungs inflate, even when he doesn't need to breathe. He’s real—almost eight years later, and Dean finally understands.

And before he can do something stupid like reciprocate, Castiel opens his mouth. “He was a remarkably good kisser,” he says, fond. “I left him as soon as I was sure he was asleep.”

Or maybe Dean misunderstood. Maybe his signals got crossed somewhere, and Castiel’s in love with someone else. Someone that isn’t him. “Sucks for him,” he says, closing his eyes. “You’re really good at this.”

If Castiel smiles at him, he doesn’t know. Castiel does, though, pull him closer, tucking Dean’s head under his chin. “I try,” he says. “I’ve always tried.”

-+-

Mary barely knows him. Sure, she knew him when he was a child, when he was barely old enough to know what monsters were or why John left, or why sometimes she disappeared and came back, bruised but smiling with open arms to meet him. Hunting runs in the family, apparently—and desperately, Dean wishes it didn't.

But they’ve tried. Mary, to know her children as adults, and Dean, to learn who his mother really is outside of the vision he had of her all her life, before the fire. Amara gave him the chance to, and strange as it is, he thanks her for it. The last six months have meant the world to him, not that he’ll ever admit it out loud. Sam must know, though—everyone does, if he thinks about it.

At some point between Castiel crawling into bed and Dean waking up with an angel practically on top of him, the power cycled back on, the generator no longer a low hum through the halls. Robe cinched tight and donning two pairs of socks on his feet, Dean wanders through the halls until he finds the kitchen—and incidentally, his mother, standing in front of the oven with her hands outstretched. A faint warmth lingers in the room, making it probably the hottest place in the entire building.

She turns to greet him with a soft hello, never making an attempt to leave the oven. Honestly, Dean doesn’t blame her. “It’s below zero outside,” she says, wincing. “We forgot the milk yesterday.”

“Shit.” Dean hangs his head, then laughs. He can work around that, honestly, at least until he can make it outside without freezing the minute he steps out the door. “Hey, can I talk to you? Not really something Sam’s gonna understand.”

“Sure,” she says. Reluctantly, she closes the oven door and walks over to the kitchen table, pulling her robe tight around her. Like Dean’s, but bright red and nearly reaching the floor.

Dean grabs two mugs before he joins her, starting the Mr. Coffee on the counter. It buys him time, time Dean doesn’t know how to fill other than by talking. “Do you remember Pastor Jacob, when I was a kid?” he asks, his back turned.

Mary’s chair creaks. “He died when you were three,” she says, wary. “He’s still dead, right?”

“No, yeah, he’s—” _Fuck_. The machine sputters, and Dean gets a mug underneath the nozzle before it soaks the countertop. “You know he was gay, right?”

A sigh. “No one talked about it, but we suspected.”

Mugs in hand, Dean joins her at the table, sitting across from her. He might not know much about her, but he knows her taste in coffee—the same as his, no cream or sugar, just straight caffeine. “Dad wasn’t… didn’t really accept it,” he says, cup to his lips. “He never really talked about it, but I knew. Just the way he looked at people, the way he looked at…” A pause. “At me.”

Blue eyes grow wide, her brow lifted. “You,” she starts. Fear roils in his gut, unsure of where to spread to first. His heart seems like a good spot. “You think you’re…”

“I don’t think it.” Looking down into his mug, Dean hates the face that looks back at him. “Just trying to figure things out. And I know it’s the last thing you wanna hear out of your son, but… I did some messed up shit in my teens, but even if I didn't, even if dad didn’t drag me into the life, that’s… That’s me.”

Slow, Mary nods. Never once do her eyes leave his, not even when Dean looks down, desperate to be anywhere but here. But he needs this—she needs to know, and he needs to talk about it, rather than stewing in his own thoughts. “How did you know?” she asks, the opposite of what he expected.

Shrugging, Dean leans back. Heat simmers under his skin, embarrassment squeezing his lungs. “Honestly, I’m still working on it,” he says, scrubbing his face. “It’s just… different, with guys. I mean, I’ve had my moments with women”—pointedly, he glares at the tabletop—“but it felt like an obligation. Like it’s something I had to do, like it’d _fix_ me. Because that’s what I’m supposed to do, I’m supposed to settle down with a wife and pop out kids. But that’s—that’s not me.”

Looking down, Dean clasps his hands over the back of his head. “I like men,” he says, and for once, it doesn’t feel wrong. “I don't feel like I’m hiding part of myself when I’m with them. I don’t have to fake it, or be someone I’m not just to get someone to touch me. I’m just…”

Chair legs scrape against the floor. The adrenaline of rejection spikes for a split second; the room spins, and a gentle hand touches his shoulder, pulling him in. Mary’s robe pillows his cheek, and her arms wrap around his neck, holding him close. With shaking hands, Dean clings to her, her robe in his fists, his knuckles blanched.

“I know you’re not the boy I knew,” Mary starts, tracing her fingers through his hair, “and I know that I don’t know half of what you’ve been through, but I made a promise to myself when you were born, that come what may, I’d be here for you. That I’d love you, no matter how you were. That doesn’t stop just because of who you love and who you don’t.”

Dean sniffles, relief reaching his eyes. Burying his face in her stomach, he breathes in the scent of her shampoo, the scent of her that he’s never been able to shake, no matter how old he gets. “I think I’m in love with Cas,” he muffles, hearing her sigh. “He’s… He’s it. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted, and he’s… I don’t think he loves me back.”

Nimble fingers trace from the crown of his head to his nape, then back up. Soothing trails that he loses himself in, that she used to do for him when John was gone, when storms rolled into town, the night they thought they’d lost Sam two months before he was born. That night, no one ever mentions, but Dean remembers how she held him in the hospital, how for the longest time, they waited for any sign of life. The only time Dean ever saw her cry was that night.

That night, and now as she cups his face in her calloused hands. “Tell me it’s alright,” Dean begs, hating how much his eyes sting. “Why does it hurt?”

Gentle, Mary drops a kiss to his forehead. “It never stops,” she says, then pulls him back in. “But for your sake, I hope it does.”

-+-

Blizzard conditions lessen to a moderate snowfall by lunch, the wind dying down to a reasonable level where Dean can step foot outside and not have his eyelashes freeze on contact. Standing by the back door, Dean pulls his coat tight and stares out at the landscape, entirely covered in several feet of snow. White trees sit against a backdrop of white sky, the ground equally as bright and untouched by human hands.

Dean has never wanted to run headfirst into a snowdrift so bad in his life.

The cold bites at him, though. Want as he might, he can barely make it past the threshold, his face immediately constricting. Maybe after it warms up more, and he can feel more than one of his toes at a time.

Sam emerges from a four-hour nap by the time Dean wrenches himself back inside. Dean meets him in the library, Sam half-asleep and nursing something that smells like peppermint tea with a sandwich spread out on a ceramic plate. He offers Dean a wave from the table, and Dean sits opposite him, pillowing his head in his arms. “Not enough coffee to get through today,” Dean mumbles.

Sam agrees, setting his cup on the table. “Mom told me,” he says—and there goes Dean’s chance for a nap. “She’s still trying to wrap her head around it, but she’s… fine, I think.”

Sitting up, Dean presses his palms into his eyes until sparks bloom. “Can’t have secrets in this house.” He blinks at Sam, his face slowly coming into focus. “Take it you’re fine with it? Or do I need to find another brother?”

“No, I’m cool,” Sam laughs. The corners of his eyes wrinkle, much too early for his age. “Look, I knew. I just figured you didn’t wanna talk about it, not after—”

“Dad, yeah.” Leaning back, Dean slides down his seat until his ass hits the edge. Not the best position for his back, but for a moment, the ache grounds him. “Been a really weird twenty-four hours, man.”

Rather than reply, Sam concentrates on eating, his eyes on his phone. Tilting his head back, Dean stares at the ceiling, at all of the minute cracks from the foundation settling. “Does Cas know?” Sam asks, purely out of curiosity.

Dean’s lungs deflate, heart clenching near-painfully. “He was kinda there,” he says. Sam lifts his brows, lips parted. “Not like that, dude, just—He stayed back at the motel while I went into town and checked the morgue, and I hit up a bar after.”

Sam squints, the wrinkles in his forehead angled into a vee. “What, so you left Cas behind and went cruising?”

“Jesus Christ.” If Dean sinks any lower, he might hit the floor. “Look, I just wanted a drink, and some kid hit me up. Apparently, his girlfriend had him convinced he’s queer just ‘cause he likes his ass played with.”

“Okay, okay.” Sam shakes his head, taking a quick swig of his tea. “Okay, so you… What, did he start calling you names, or—”

Dean sighs as loudly as he can. “No.” He wouldn't have let him walk away with his teeth if he did. “He just asked me how long it took me to figure out I was gay.”

Sam hums, mouth full of turkey and lettuce. “And are you?”

He frowns. Frowns deeper the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense in his head. “I haven’t had sex with a woman in… two, three years?” he says. Sam stops chewing entirely. “Not that I’ve had a few stellar years in the first place, but it’s been strictly dudes.”

Setting his sandwich down, Sam downs the rest of his tea and nearly chokes. “Huh.” He stops, thinks. “I always thought you were overcompensating, but I guess it makes sense.”

If only it didn't. “Yeah, well, word’s out.” Dean sighs and sits up, if only to spare his back the ache later. “Cas doesn't have any other friends, right?”

Sam gives him a look, one Dean can only equate as _why won’t you let me eat in peace_? “I’m pretty sure we’re his only friends,” he says, slow. “Why, did something happen? Is this about Cas—”

“Not so loud.” Dean waves a hand at him, glancing over into the doorway. No one appears, and he doesn’t feet any approaching footsteps. “Cas just—He was trying to empathize or whatever the other night. Said something about his Grace being bound to another dude, but he wouldn't say who.”

The longer Sam stares at him, the more Dean begins to think Castiel is standing behind him, or he grew a second head. Sam straightens up, leaning his elbows on the table. Serious talk, then. Based on how this morning started, maybe he should’ve stayed in bed. “You really don’t see it, do you?” Sam asks. “The way he looks at you, it’s—Jessica always looked at me the same way. And I didn't realize it until it was too late, because I was so caught up in what I felt, that I never took the time to realize that she loved me back. I mean, I knew she did, but it’s…

“It’s different, actually paying attention.” Sam’s gaze softens, wistful. “You look at him the same. I’ve known you my whole life, Dean. I know you probably better than I know myself, and I know how you see him. All I’m saying is think about it.” Standing, Sam grabs his plate. “Please?”

Think about it—think about what? But Sam leaves before he can ask, and Dean sits alone in silence, his nose still cold and hands overwhelmingly empty. Down the hall, Castiel sleeps in his bed, and Dean can’t make himself go back. Because if Castiel loves him—if Castiel’s Grace is _bound_ to him of all people—then this is uncharted territory.

-+-

The worst thing about living through a sexuality crisis is that he can’t leave the Bunker. Mostly because of the weather, but also partly because if he ran now, Castiel would chase after him, and Sam would berate him for chickening out on the one good thing he has. Castiel woke up hours ago, already committed to his daily routine of doing God knows what, and Sam and Mary called dibs on the TV room hours ago.

Leaving Dean to sulk and do the only thing he can think of to take his mind off of it—clean.

He starts with the bathroom, then moves to the library once the scent of bleach burns off all of the hairs in his nose. Dusting makes him sneeze, but it keeps him in motion, climbing the ladder attached to each bookcase and sliding at his leisure, just because he can. In the corner, the Victrola plays what he thinks is Dean Martin’s Christmas album. Laughter rings faintly through the halls, and softly, socked feet make their way into the room.

Castiel doesn’t speak, only offering Dean a half-caffeinated hello before settling into the lone armchair in the corner. For the most part, Dean works around him, finishing with the shelves before breaking out the Orange Glo on the tables. The first one comes clean easily, but the second one requires him to lift books and scrub through food stains, including the faint ring left from Sam’s mug an hour ago.

Though, something new catches his attention. Underneath an ancient copy of a German Bible, Dean finds the carvings of his and Sam’s initials—and the recently gouged MW, alongside two letters he never thought he’d ever see together— _CW_.

Castiel Winchester.

Hands smelling of chemical oranges, Dean resists wiping his eyes, or shoving his fist into his mouth. “Where’d you find a knife?” he asks, spraying the table. He doesn’t let the cloth linger over Castiel’s initials—or, he tells himself he doesn’t, anyway.

Looking up, Dean balks with the utter indignation on Castiel’s face. Sam lied, because all Dean sees is the most annoyed man on the planet. “I was talking to your mother before I came to you last night,” Castiel says. Pushing out of his chair, he joins Dean tableside, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. Oddly, Dean misses the coat, but this is better, seeing Castiel comfortable enough to let his guard down. “She’s adjusting, but it’s… hard for her. She’s thinking about leaving for a while, but she didn't want to bring it up until after the holidays.”

Leaving— _But she just got here_. And unfortunately, Dean gets it. Knows full and well if he were in her shoes, he’d do the same thing and run the first chance he got. Living here isn’t the life she needs. If only she had brought it up months ago, then she could’ve seen the sunlight sooner, rather than spending most of her days underground with the rest of them.

 _I just got her back_. “It’ll be good for her,” Dean says, heart heavy. Not that he hadn’t been expecting it, but having it actually happen? “I’d kill to be able to get out of here. Hell, even for a week, someplace that doesn’t have recycled air and isn’t covered in snow.”

Low, Castiel hums in agreement. He traces his fingertips over the letters of his name, his eyes hooded. “What if we went somewhere?” he suggests, never looking up. “For the holidays. We could rent a cabin, or a cottage. It’d be… nice, for us to all visit somewhere without a hunt in the back of our minds.”

It’s an idea—one Dean hasn’t entertained in years. But years ago, they had the apocalypse to deal with, then the leviathan—and then the Mark, and Dean lost count of the days after that. Somehow, they came out on the other side of it, and they’re still… here. In a subterranean mid-century bunker, growing paler by the day. “What about the beach?” Dean asks. At his side, Castiel nods. “We can go full tourist, lather on the sunscreen and lay on the beach until we boil.”

A laugh, quiet. “I don’t intend on having to heal your sunburn, but yes, I’d like that.”

Good. A getaway will be nice, this time with the whole family. But first. “You sure you’re ready for this?” Dean asks, digging his thumb into the upper right corner of Castiel’s W. “Know I’ve always said you’re family, but… It’s a lot of responsibility. You’re gonna have to put up with our bullshit. We’re gonna bleed. Everywhere, it’s gonna be messy.”

“I know.” And Castiel looks up, absolution in his eyes. “And so will I. After all we’ve been through, it’s nice to have a home, to have… someone to come back to. You’ve spent your life on the road, Dean, and I know how lonely it is, because I’ve been with you. But I’m making a pact.” Lifting his hand, he fits it over Dean’s clothed shoulder, digging his fingers into the scar that sometimes, he wakes up holding, chasing Castiel’s touch. “I have no ties to Heaven any longer, and no place else to be on Earth. Let me stay, and I’ll prove myself to you.”

Dean’s heart unclenches, just a little. Enough for the pressure in his chest to ease, the burden on his shoulders to lessen. “You don’t have to prove anything,” he whispers, stepping closer. Castiel’s eyes widen, and Dean’s heart pounds for an entirely different reason. With shaking hands, he palms Castiel’s shoulders, then moves up to cradle his nape. “You just gotta stay. No one’s ever…” _I’ve never been worth it_ , he thinks. _No one’s ever wanted to stay_.

Castiel’s lips part in awe—and Dean kisses him before he can speak, tasting the coffee on Castiel’s tongue. And worst—or best—of all, Castiel kisses him back, nails tugging at his robe, his eyes fluttering shut. Probably one of the most chaste kisses Dean has ever given someone, but he doesn’t mind, so long as Castiel keeps touching him, keeps sighing the way he does, like Dean will never be enough for him.

They separate, only after footsteps begin to make their way down the hall, heading in their direction. Castiel stares at him, just as bewildered as Dean feels, and his hands drop from where they somehow wandered to the front of Dean’s robe. Dean laments the loss, his lips itching for more. “Later,” Castiel says, his smile soft. “We should tell them the good news.”

News? What news? “Cas,” Dean starts, panicked—

But Castiel calms him, taking Dean’s hand in his. “About the trip. We don’t… They don’t have to know, not now.”

Good—now, if only Dean can find a chair that he can pass out in.

-+-

Florida is warmer—not by much by winter’s standards, but at least here, Dean can feel his extremities. Parking in the spot beneath their cottage, he looks out at the ocean a few dozen feet away, and the sun setting over the horizon, painting the sky in oranges and reds. The Impala’s engine ticks as she cools. In the passenger seat, Castiel sighs and stretches his legs in the footwell, face pinched between agony and a moan.

Sam and Mary pull up into the space beside them, the F100’s brakes whining as she pulls to a stop. They made good time, considering, eleven hours yesterday, and eight today, not including rest stops and meals. Years ago, spending half a day on the road wouldn't have affected him. Now, Dean’s back aches, and his eyes drift shut on occasion, heavy from driving into the sun for the last few hours. Castiel, for all of his angelic prowess, practically whines the minute he steps out of the car; Dean has never empathized with him more.

No one speaks as they gather their belongings and head inside. From the pictures online, the listing described the house as a spacious bungalow, situated up on stilts with blue walls and yellow trim and a porch that faced the ocean. Stepping inside, Dean has been in motel rooms that had more space. A cloth sectional sits in the corner of the living room, facing a television mounted on the wall just a few feet away; the kitchen is maybe half the size of theirs back at the Bunker, and the bedrooms might as well be for children, with their twin mattresses and next to very little walkable space. Probably a way to keep everyone from congregating indoors for too long.

“I think the internet lied,” Dean complains, and no one disagrees.

Mary and Sam pick their respective rooms later, after Sam orders in Chinese and everyone eats their fill. Somehow, Dean missed the fact that there is in fact a queen bed in one of the rooms, and Mary snagged it before he could properly do an assessment. Sam locks himself in the second bedroom, leaving Dean and Castiel to the twin in the guest suite. If Dean were twenty-five years younger, he might fit—as it is, shoving two grown men into the same bed?

“I can sleep on the couch,” Castiel suggests, but Dean shakes his head. Castiel has already snuck into his bed twice in the last week, and at the moment, Dean could care less.

Red-faced, Dean undresses down to his briefs. He pulls a well-worn shirt from his bad and tugs it on, all while he keeps an eye on the bed and not on Castiel doing the same. He could look, if he wanted, could admire every inch of hidden skin Castiel has, but something about it makes his stomach lurch, draws a guilty flush to his cheeks. Sharing a bed is one thing—ogling is something entirely different.

Dean shuts off the overhead light, keeping his eyes to the floor. Moonlight pours in through the sheer curtains, and a cool breeze wafts in through the window. Crawling into bed, he turns onto his side, and Castiel falls in after him, arm around Dean’s waist. Somehow, they fit, though Dean’s arm hangs over the side and their feet brush the bare edge of the comforter. He’s slept in worse places, but having Castiel here helps. Castiel keeps him calm, eases the fear in his chest until he can breathe again.

But exhausted as he is, sleep doesn't come. For a while, Dean lies there with Castiel surrounding him, acutely aware of the quiet of the night, of their breaths, of Castiel’s occasional sighs. “Why is this so easy?” he asks to the wall. “Normally I’m not this…”

“Relaxed?” Castiel asks, and Dean nods. Hot breath puffs against his nape, and gentle lips press a kiss to the top knot of his spine. His throat tightens, eyes pinched shut. “When I said that my Grace was bound to someone, did you think it was someone else?”

Swallowing, Dean turns his face into the pillows. “If it’s me, you shouldn't be… bound to me, or whatever. All I’m gonna do is hurt you, or you’re gonna leave, and it’s… It’s gonna kill me, having to watch you go.”

A warm hand settles over his shoulder—then shoves him flat, and Castiel throws a leg over his waist. Breath caught, Dean looks up to find Castiel straddling him, wearing nothing but threadbare sweatpants and a shirt about a size too big. If he wanted, Dean could touch him, but guilt keeps him from even trying. Instead, Castiel flattens his palms atop Dean’s chest, where his heart beats a wild, panicked rhythm.

“After all that we’ve endured,” Castiel whispers, “why do you think I’d leave? You’ve called me part of your family on more than one occasion, you’ve saved my life, and I, yours. You wear my mark on your soul, and you’ve touched my Grace, here.” Nimbly, he guides Dean’s hand up to cover a spot over Castiel’s ribs, where faintly, he can feel the imprint of a mark he’s never before seen. “I’ve seen you at your basest, Dean Winchester. I’ve seen you with blood under your nails and a crown of thorns on your head. I’ve watched you suffer, I’ve witnessed your anger, your despair, yet your soul shone so brightly that I began to wonder, if someone could love so fiercely yet ache so deeply, then what was the point of existing, if all it meant was pain?

“But I think I know.” Again, Castiel moves Dean’s hand, this time to fit over his heart, where it beats, steady, true. Dean fists his shirt, shaking. “Humanity is a marvel that the angels, that God could never foresee. You’re conceived, and from the minute you’re born, you hurt. You long for comfort, for companionship, for love, and your heart breaks for every person you’ve met, because you know in a way that you’ll lose them, that their memory will fade, or they’ll die, and that will be the last you’ll ever see of them.

“But that won’t be me.” Leaning down, Castiel kisses him, his lashes wet. His tears mingle with Dean’s, dripping down the side of his face, into the shell of his ear. Trembling, Dean cups the back of his neck, ashamed to look Castiel in the eye. _He’s beautiful_ , Dean thinks. _And I don’t deserve him_. “You’ll never forget me, Dean. I’ll always be with you, no matter where you are, because what we share, the bond we’ve created, can never be broken, not even by death.

“Years ago, when we first met, I was duty-bound to my mission. I had a goal to achieve, and I thought that if I raised you, that you’d fall in line. Because so many others in the past, they bowed to the whim of the angels. But you…” A laugh, soft. “You stabbed me in the chest, and I thought, this isn’t how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to be written into the grand story in Heaven. I was just an angel, Dean. I was following orders blindly, and I thought that this was how it was supposed to be.

“But with you…” Sucking in a breath, Castiel hides his face in Dean’s throat. “You’ve changed me. I’m so much more with you. I’ve become a friend, a confidant. I’ve become more human, because of you, and I’ve learned to love. I’ve learned about life and how to live, and I now have meaning, a purpose, because of you.” Another kiss, and Dean shakes, his heart full. “I love you.”

“Cas,” Dean says. Running his thumbs under Castiel’s eyes, he gathers his tears and lets them drip into the webbing between his fingers. His own blur his vision, and briefly, he wonders if this is how he dies, wrapped in Castiel’s love, his complete adoration. No one has ever loved him so thoroughly, to the point where Dean forgets anything other than that, his body, his soul consumed in it, trapped in a perpetual orbit. And whatever Castiel gives him, Dean wants to give back tenfold, and it still wouldn't be enough. “You know I… I’ve always—”

“I know.” Foreheads touching, Castiel blinks away the tears. “I feel it. I’ve felt it for years, but I never… Until the other morning, I didn't think I could have this.”

“You can.” Swallowing his fear, Dean cups Castiel’s cheek, only to feel him shiver. “I’ve always been here.”

Castiel’s face crumples, and Dean falls right with him, tucking Castiel’s face into his neck. The weight of the world collapses in that one moment, where Dean basks in Castiel’s love, and Castiel reconnects with his soul. They kiss for what feels like hours, until the bed fades away, and all Dean knows is Castiel and the Grace under his ribs, the love on his tongue. All he’s ever wanted to know, and now, he can take it. He can love Castiel in return, and not be ashamed.

Around them, the moon rises, the waves lap at the shore, and Castiel is in love with him. Dean holds him tight, and rests, his heart finally—wholly—at peace.

-+-

The morning feels raw, primordial. Not a cloud in the sky, a soft breeze rushing in off the ocean, the sun steadily lifting over the horizon. Sitting with his toes in the surf, Dean stares out at the water, waiting for the world to end. Nothing comes—not even a seagull to peck his eyes out of his head. The world keeps spinning, and Dean keeps breathing, like nothing ever happened.

Mary joins him a while later, flip flops on her feet and storage bag slung over her shoulder. Later, Dean will help put up the tent and weigh it down, and they’ll spend the day in the surf. For the moment, though, Dean sits there, sand creeping into places where it shouldn't and the sun beginning to warm his skin, and his mother’s arm around his shoulders, pulling him in close.

Lightly, she pets through his hair. “Are you okay?”

And for the first time in what feels like a long time, Dean nods. “Feels different, here,” he murmurs. “Cas said you’re leaving.”

At first, Mary freezes, then relaxes, her eyes to the sea. “Just for a while,” she says, no trace of hesitation in her voice. “I need to… You’re my son, Dean. You and Sam both, but it’s been over thirty years since I’ve seen the world. I was still young when I had you and Sam. I never really got to grow up. I wanted a life outside of being a mother, and… I want the chance to be on my own.”

Unfortunately, Dean gets it. As much as he wants Mary by his side, he can’t keep her tethered. Dean never got a childhood, and Mary never got to be an adult. “I’m not gonna stop you,” he says through a sigh. “Just—you know we’re always gonna be here, right? If you need anything, you know our number. Even if the truck’s in a ditch somewhere—”

“I’ll call,” Mary laughs, her face falling. “I know I’m not the person you expected me to be. I wasn’t the perfect mother back then, and I’m still not. I’m not trying to be.” A breath. “But if you need anything, I’m here.”

Nodding, Dean palms his eye. “Yeah,” he says, fighting to keep his words steady. “Yeah, I know.”

“Good.” Standing, she sets her bag down and offers Dean a hand. “We need to go into town. I’m fine with leftovers for breakfast, but—”

“No, hell no.” Dean laughs and takes her hand. Her touch, he still remembers, tattooed into the back of his brain next to breathing and sleep. Still the same—still his mother, no matter what. “I’ll make pancakes or something. No one needs that much salt before noon.”

-+-

Castiel can’t swim.

Hundreds of millions of years old, and Castiel has never stepped foot in the water under his own power. Granted, Dean doesn’t plan on swimming to the other side of the bay, but it would be nice to take Castiel out more than a few feet before he panics. Something about his wings weighing him down, or seeing the blackness of the dropoff, or the fins that keep surfacing by the sandbar.

“Just—sit with me, Jesus.” Taking Castiel’s hands, Dean urges him to sit in two feet of water. The waves lazily lap at them as they go down, Dean easily, Castiel like something is dragging him by his feet. From the shore, Sam laughs and Mary waves, the latter of the two sitting under their tent.

Even in winter, the water is warm. Considerably cooler than what it would be in the worst of the summer months, but still comfortable, easing the heat that beats down overhead. Under the surface, Dean holds onto Castiel, smirking at Castiel’s frown and half-tempted to split water in his face just to see him pout. Instead, Dean presses his finger to Castiel’s lips; heat rises to his cheeks when Castiel’s tongue darts out to taste the salt.

“How are you today?” Castiel asks over the sound of seagulls on the shore. Sudden, he dips his head under the water and resurfaces, brushing wet hair from his face. “I felt you get up early.”

“Too early,” Dean groans. Sure, he passed out after their… _talk_ , but staying asleep was another ordeal entirely. Emotional highs objectively should put him to sleep, but the adrenaline of Castiel’s words still resonate in his head, bouncing around at all hours of the day. “Just couldn’t stop thinking about last night.”

A smile flits across Castiel’s lips. Nimble fingers touch his knees, dipping into the bend. “Do you regret it?”

“Never.” Glancing up to the cottage and where Sam and Mary sit, Dean waits for them to look away before sneaking in a kiss. Sea salt lingers on Castiel’s lips, and another time, Dean would indulge and lick into Castiel’s mouth, just to see what he tastes like. Which, gives him an idea. “Hey, Panama City’s only forty-five minutes from here.”

Castiel lifts a brow. “You’re not suggesting there’s a case, are you?”

“What? No, no.” Dean fits his hand over Castiel’s, tangling their fingers. “Couple years ago, I found a bar in town. C’mon, you and me, dancing, shirtless guys in tight shorts, it’ll be fun.”

“A gay bar?” Castiel asks. Panic briefly flashes across his eyes, from a memory Dean still holds dear to his heart, but he eventually relaxes, heat in his eyes. “Are you sure we can sneak out like that?”

“Hell yeah.” Again, he draws Castiel into a kiss, this time with tongue; Castiel moans, soft and surprised. “C’mon, Cas. Promise I’ll be with you the whole time.”

Slow, Castiel lets out a breath. His hand skirts upward, coming to rest on the soft underside of Dean’s thigh. Dean swallows, willing his dick to _calm down_. “I’ll go,” Castiel decides, eyes half-lidded. “I don’t think we have the right attire, though.”

And Dean winks, just as smug as ever. “I think I have an idea.”

-+-

Dean’s ‘idea’ is the only pair of tight jeans he has, packed secretively in the bottom of his bag, and a white tank top tucked into his pants. Before they sneak out around eleven, Dean dresses Castiel in denim that would normally fit his own frame, but Castiel fills them out too well. Seeing Castiel shirtless all day was one thing, but seeing him fully clothed does something to him, especially seeing how tight the fabric pulls, leaving nothing to the imagination.

He takes one of Dean’s shirts and throws it on, tucking it into his pants. Dean, meanwhile, pinches his nipple until it peaks and watches Castiel jerk, his mouth falling open. “Look good like that,” Dean says, husky. In the dark of their bedroom, Castiel drags him into a biting kiss, more than enough to get Dean started for the evening.

The bar, Dean doesn’t remember the name, but vaguely recalls where it’s located. Parallel to a gas station and facing a condo complex, it looks like any other tourist trap in Panama City Beach, but with the bonus of loud music and luxury cars in the parking lot. Dean pulls in next to a jet-black Ferrari and worms his way out of the front seat, mindful of slamming the Impala’s door into the side.

Castiel stays close once they’re inside, lost in the throes of thrumming bass and bodies pressed close. Mostly younger guys and a few women in pairs, Dean finds, all well into their prime and looking for the first available body to grind against. Several eye them as they head to the bar, most appraising, one wondering aloud when the bouncer started letting ‘old men’ in. Dean would taunt him, but Castiel keeps him grounded with a hand to his bicep.

Two bartenders work tonight, a man about Dean’s age with a salt-and-pepper beard and a smile that could talk anyone into buying the highest-grade whiskey he’s got, and a woman with a head full of purple-and-pink hair, tattoos spanning her arms and her entire back underneath her halter top. The dove at the small of her back is familiar—

And a memory flashes through Dean’s mind, of the woman he met the last time he was in town, chasing a selkie leading men to their deaths by the pier. Her boyfriend had been one of the victims they actually found—or, what was left of him—and she turned to Dean for comfort. “Gloria,” Dean calls out, and Gloria whips around from where she stands by the tequila. Dark shadow lines her eyes, and her lips remind him of cherries, red and liquid under the black-light glow.

Visibly, she brightens, her smile infectious. “Well, if it ain’t my man,” she says and saunters over, elbows atop the bar. Just to flatter her, he apprises her breasts, and she flaunts them, her cleavage more than ample. Castiel stares, too, and Gloria winks at him, her lip between her teeth. “Ain’t seen you around here in years, baby.” She pets Dean’s shoulder, then tips his chin up with a finger. “Figured I’d see you in a place like this one day.”

Dean scoffs and looks down, hiding his blush. “Yeah, well, things change. Some people get boyfriends.” He wraps an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and tugs him in, and Castiel stumbles, flustered, gripping the back of Dean’s shirt.

“He’s cute,” Gloria says, offering a hand. “Gloria. What’s your name, sugar?”

Castiel takes her hand, his so much larger than hers but just as tan. “Cas,” he says. Gloria nods, and Dean tries to reason with himself about how Castiel just removed the last half of his name. “You’re—”

“One of Dean’s past fuckbuddies,” she says with a smirk. “He’s good, too. You ever tried him?”

Red creeps across Castiel’s face, up to his ears. Dean tries not to laugh—tries, and fails spectacularly. “Not yet,” he says, cupping Castiel’s nape. “Figure we’d take this one slow.”

Gloria’s smile fades to something more sentimental, her eyes going half-lidded. “I’m glad you figured it out,” she says. Spinning on a heel, she pulls a bottle of Kavalan from the middle shelf and two rock glasses. _Figured what out_? “You know, you’ve got this whole straight-guy-trying-too-hard vibe, so I always wondered—”

“If I was trying too hard?” Dean chuckles.

“I mean, you ate me out for an hour,” Gloria laughs and pours them each a shot. “Not gonna complain, but normally that’s foreplay.”

Oh, right—that part of the night, right before his phone went off in his back pocket and he lost interest. That it was Castiel’s name on the caller ID meant nothing at the time—but now, it makes sense. And Gloria never questioned when he threw his shirt back on and walked out, or how listening to her come did next to nothing for his libido. _Going through the motions_. “Wish I had a better excuse for you.” Shrugging, Dean glances over to Castiel, who snakes an arm around Dean’s waist.

“Trust me, it’s not an excuse.” She turns and replaces the bottle on the shelf. “I get it, Dean. It took me years to realize that getting off to my brother’s Penthouse magazines wasn’t something straight girls did.”

Dean gets that, remembering all of the magazines he snuck into the Impala’s backseat in the dead of night, only to toss them as soon as the high faded. He was horny—the fact that the guys were half or fully nude didn't matter, and for years, lying to himself worked. Until the first time he sucked cock and got off on it, in a seedy gas station bathroom in the middle of nowhere Georgia. The guy slapped him after he came—and Dean fucked his fist after the guy left, making a mess of his jeans and everything else.

It didn’t mean anything, until now.

Another man would watch Gloria’s hips sway and just how far her shirt dips, but Dean has eyes for the whiskey set before him. It burns on the way down, different than the aging liquor he has at the bunker and way more expensive. Castiel downs his without a sound, alcohol clinging to his lips; thoughtless, Dean kisses it away, and ignores Gloria’s whistle when Castiel kisses back. It feels right—perfect, even.

“Well, this one’s on the house,” Gloria announces as soon as Dean—reluctantly—lets Castiel go. “One queer to another? Go have fun. Better late than never, that’s what my wife said about us two.”

Dean blinks. “Wait—wife?”

Gloria nods and flashes the massive block of turquoise on her ring finger. “Go, dance.”

Castiel leads Dean out into the writhing crowd before Dean can get another word in. Dancing prowess doesn’t matter here, not as long as two bodies press close and someone gets handsy. Namely, Castiel, his hands tucked into Dean’s pockets as they grind. Steady, teasing, with no real heat behind it, but Dean can’t look away, can’t keep his hands out of Castiel’s hair, off of his ass. The music swells and throbs, and occasionally, someone steals Castiel away, or Dean, the two lost among the mass of heated bodies and alcohol-laced kisses.

At some point, Dean breaks away and backs into a wall, where two women kiss with their shirts half-off and a group of frat boy makes crude gestures to each other. One of them eyes Dean, but all Dean sees is Castiel dancing with a man half Dean’s age. Thin but muscular, with blue eyes and his entire arm inked black save for his elbow. They kiss, and the guy feels up Castiel’s ass; an image crosses Dean’s mind, of what it might be like to watch him undress Castiel, to rip his shirt from his pants—

“Hey,” someone says in a voice pitched up two octaves. Looking over, Dean finds one of the frat boys sidled up to him, wearing a crop top and cut-off jeans, a single hoop dangling from one ear. Brown hair, green eyes, and the prettiest lips Dean has ever seen—so much like him when he was in his twenties, dangerously so. “So, I got a question.”

Dean lifts a brow. “Shoot, kid.”

“One, I’m twenty-two,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Okay, so my name’s Jace, and my buddies over there”—he thumbs to the table in the corner, where his four friends wink and blow kisses at the back of his head—“bet me five hundred bucks that I couldn't get picked up tonight.”

Oh— _Oh_. A tight heat squeezes his gut, spiraling south. “So you picked me?”

Jace shrugs, mildly panicked. “And your buddy, if he wants? I need video proof, or they’re gonna rag me for the rest of my life, and I can’t take it.” He steps closer, lips to Dean’s ear, and traces sun-tanned fingers down the front of his shirt. “I live a block from here, come with me. Need a couple big, strong men like y’all to teach me a lesson. I’ve been bad, baby.” He takes Dean’s hand and presses it to the front of his jeans, where a definite bulge tents the denim. “You interested?”

Swallowing, Dean nods. “Yeah, yeah, just—Cas,” he calls out across the floor. Castiel looks up from where an entirely different man is trying to gnaw at his neck, and slips away with a polite wave. Jace’s eyes never leave Castiel’s, and if anything, the red tint to his cheeks deepens, his jaw slack. “Jace, I think I know who’s perfect for the job. See, Cas here’s got a huge dick.”

Castiel balks and glares at Dean. “Dean, how—”

“Oh, he looks like he does,” Jace says. Sliding in, he squeezes the back of Castiel’s neck and pulls him into a searing kiss; Castiel grabs hold of his shoulders, rough, then softer, once he gets the hint. “Think you’ll take real good care of me, huh?”

Eyes hazy, Castiel nods.

“Jace here wants us to fuck him,” Dean says, winking. “Think we can help him make half a grand?”

Another nod, this time with heat. “I think we can manage that, Dean.”

-+-

Years ago, Dean imagines that he would’ve looked like this in bed, chest blushing deep red and his mouth gone slack, lips bitten swollen. But he had more scars to show for it, not like Jace, with his full-body tan and smooth, freckled skin.

Lying on the mattress, Jace pants out a string of curses while Castiel works his fingers between his legs, four of them bringing him to an incoherent mess. All the while, Dean takes Jace’s phone and holds it, recording probably the hottest sight he’s ever seen in his life: Castiel’s thick, deft fingers plunging into Jace’s ass; Castiel’s cock, hard and absolutely monstrous, leaking at the tip and flushed; Jace, fisting the sheets as he sucks the tip of Dean’s cock, mindless in his pleasure.

“You think he’s good?” Dean asks. His hips ache to _move_ as Jace pulls off, and his cock throbs, smacking against his stomach. “’Cause he looks ready.”

Appraising, Castiel hums and pulls his fingers free. “He might survive,” he taunts. Jace moans and fists his cock, wrapping his fingers around the base. “Maybe we should ask him.”

“I’m ready,” Jace whines, pinching his eyes shut. “I’m so, so ready, come on—”

“Shh.” Leaning down, Dean kisses him, feeling Jace’s mouth go slack in a moan. “You’re gonna love it.”

Grabbing a condom from the mattress, Dean rips it open with his teeth. He sets the phone down long enough to drag Castiel into a kiss, smoothing the condom on with both hands. Just an excuse to touch him, to feel Castiel buck in the circle of his fist—maybe later, he can get Castiel between his legs back at the cottage, can get Castiel to fuck him so hard the bed frame rattles. “It’s gonna be good,” Dean promises against his lips. Castiel chases him, stealing another kiss before Dean lets go. He stops the video and starts a new one, kneeling at Jace’s side. “You ready?”

Jace nods, lip between his teeth—and whimpers when Castiel lifts his hips and dips inside. “Slow, slow,” Dean teases, touching his fingers to the base of Castiel’s cock. Careful, he helps guide Castiel, marveling at how hot he is through the latex, how wet he is from lube. “That’s it, Cas.” Another kiss. Dean bites his lip, and Castiel growls, nipping his tongue. “Feel good?”

“Yes,” Castiel groans.

“Yeah,” Jace echoes. “Fuck, feels so good, baby. So fuckin’ _big_.”

“Bet it’s good.” With a laugh, Dean kisses Castiel one more time before he backs away. Jace grabs for Dean’s knee, then his cock, loosely stroking him, keeping him interested. Not like Dean couldn't be interested in this. Tonight’s fantasy come to life—Castiel, with his hands holding Jace open by the knees, slowly building a rhythm, and Jace, his moans pitchy and his cock bobbing with every thrust.

Dean keeps the camera where it’s most important, where the two of them are joined. Watching it through the screen is one thing, but in reality, it’s even hotter, knowing that it’s real, that he can see more than what the phone allows. Outside of the video, Castiel pants, muscles working overtime as he fucks Jace, hips in his lap and legs spread wide. Jace encourages him with soft words and louder moans; he bends where Castiel wants him and doesn’t complain once, not even when Castiel pulls out and flips him onto his stomach.

There, Jace howls and bites the bedsheets, his eyes rolled back. Castiel thrusts like a madman, knuckles white where he grips Jace’s hips, keeping him still. Jace’s cock leaks and throbs, and Dean strokes it, only to hear him whine. He puts the camera closer, watching Castiel’s cock disappear into Jace, slick and making a mess of him. “That’s it,” Dean pants, dragging Castiel into another kiss. One-handed, Castiel grabs Dean by the back of his head, and Dean drops the phone. “Fuck him, Cas, like you’d fuck me—”

“ _Dean_.” A challenge lingers in Castiel’s eyes, one Dean intends to follow up on.

But Castiel isn’t his priority right now. No, Jace is, and Jace’s rapturous moans, his release close at hand. Dean picks up the phone and starts another video, just in time to see Castiel flip Jace onto his side, one leg hiked up over his shoulder, the other bent on the bed. Eyes rolled back, Jace strips his cock, his abs tight, breath caught. He comes like that with barely a sound, and his cock spills, dirtying his fist and the sheets. Dean captures it all on camera, including Castiel flipping him onto his back and _growling_ as he uses Jace, and Jace just moans and lets him, lost in the throes.

The bedroom lamp flickers when Castiel finishes, and somewhere in the house, a light bulb pops; unseen by Jace, shadows loom at Castiel’s back for a split second, and bright blue creeps from beneath Castiel’s closed eyelids. He’s beautiful, ephemeral—and Dean has never been more jealous in his life, that it couldn't be him.

After, Castiel pulls out and trashes the condom, still as hard as when they started; Jace lies there in the middle of his king-size bed, idly petting through the mess of come on his stomach like he won some sort of prize. Handing over the phone, Jace flips through the videos, tongue between his teeth. “You done this before? ‘Cause this is top quality.”

“Nah.” Dean slips off the bed and goes for his jeans, lost somewhere in the mess of Jace’s room. “Just know how to work a camera.” _And I’ve watched too much porn_.

Castiel joins him once he gathers his bearings; sweat sticks to his skin, and Dean wants to taste it, wants to lick the salt off him. They kiss, once, Dean’s jeans undone and Castiel’s shirt half on. Later—later, when they get back, they’ll talk about this, but for now, Dean stands with his forehead against Castiel’s, lost in his eyes, his love.

“When did you two get together?” Jace asks, rolling off the other side of the bed. “’Cause y’all are gross, you act like my parents.”

Castiel laughs first, his eyes wrinkling; Dean can’t help but follow along, ignoring the tears that threaten to well. “Years ago,” Castiel says into another kiss. “So, so long ago.”

-+-

They don’t go back to the cottage—not immediately, anyway. No, Dean pulls off on a barren stretch of road between there and Panama City and parks in an abandoned beach lot. Shuttering the engine, all he can see is the moon dancing off the water and the stars pinpricking the sky. Cool air blows in through the open windows, easing the fear that somehow crept in the minute they left Jace’s house. In the passenger seat, Castiel looks to the sea, somewhat sad, his fingers spread atop his thighs.

“I feel… ashamed,” Castiel mumbles, settling back into his seat. “I don’t regret it, but it’s… strange.”

Dean palms his eyes. “No, I get it. Sex is weird, man, it feels great when it happens, but sometimes coming down is hard. Doesn’t mean you didn't like it.”

Nodding, Castiel heaves a sigh. In the moonlight, his eyes gleam. “You never finished.”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Dean pats his hand, lacing their fingers. “I’ve had to leave hard before, it’s fine.”

Castiel hums. Drawing his knee up onto the bench, he faces Dean, arm hanging over the top of the seat. He never did quite get his shirt back on, currently sitting on the floorboard with their shoes and socks; looking at him, Dean wants to touch him, wants to kiss the frown off his lips. “Still.” Gentle, he traces his fingers down Dean’s jaw, then cups his cheek. “You deserve to feel good, Dean.”

Dean inhales until his lungs threaten to burst, then exhales, steeling his nerves. Watching Castiel fuck someone else is one thing—never in his life did he imagine that Castiel would want to sleep with _him_ , of all people. “We don’t have to do—what we did with Jace,” he says, looking down at his lap. “Don’t really feel like getting hands-on, if you know what I mean.”

Nodding, Castiel draws him in for a kiss. “That’s fine,” he whispers. “Come with me.”

On instinct, he follows Castiel into the backseat. The bed back at the cottage arguably has more room, but for once, Dean welcomes the claustrophobia of being trapped on the bench, his back to the leather. In an ideal world, he would let Castiel open him up and take him right there, but the urgency of his arousal passed as soon as Castiel came, and now, all Dean wants is touch, to be surrounded by him, to be loved just as deeply.

Kissing, Dean has always been good at, no matter the person. Women were softer, rougher when they needed to be, but delicate while they touched him, like he was the precious one in the situation. Men, though, Dean has always lusted for hard presses and the scrape of stubble, of coarse hairs brushing against his own. The taste of their sweat, the heavy scent of musk and cologne, all of it working his senses into a frenzy.

Castiel smells like the cheap candles from Jace’s bedroom and sloshed whiskey, and the aging leather of the backseat. He kisses slow, methodical, and Dean chases him, breathing when he can, sighing when Castiel touches him just right, nipping his lip or sucking shallow marks to his throat. Palm to Castiel’s ass, he draws them flush, denim brushing against denim in a sinuous grind that robs the air from his lungs.

It takes some maneuvering and a redirection of blood back to his brain, but Dean manages to shove Castiel onto his back without elbowing anyone in the head or gut. Castiel goes all too willingly, a hand in Dean’s hair and the other palming the seat of his jeans. Between them, Dean gets their zippers undone and brings their cocks into his fist, both leaking and flushed. All at once, Dean’s arousal returns, heat building in his veins and creeping southward. Castiel’s hand joins in, increasing the pressure, and his kisses grow more fevered, wetter, deeper.

“When we get home,” Dean gasps, grinding into their joined grip, “I wanna—wanna ride you. Wanna come so hard I can’t see straight—”

“Whatever you want.” Castiel tugs his shirt, bunching up the damp fabric in his fist. “Whatever you want, Dean—”

“Yeah.” Dean shudders his way through a moan when Castiel twists his fist; precome spurts from Dean’s cock, slicking their grip. _So close_. “But what do— _Cas_ , you gotta want somethin’, what do you—what do you want?”

Panting, Castiel takes him by the hair and kisses him, his stroke lightning-quick, ruining Dean in no time flat. “You,” he says—

And Dean moans, pathetic, spilling all over Castiel’s stomach, his breath caught in his chest. Worst of all, Castiel doesn’t stop, whispering words into Dean’s ear that Dean has never heard before while he milks him dry, while Dean shivers and shakes in his grip. Eventually, he lets up, only after Dean pushes his hand away with a laugh. Sometime during his mania, Castiel joined in, the mess of it spread from his navel up his chest. Inexplicably, Dean wants to lick him clean and swallow every bit of him he can.

Instead, Dean buries his face in Castiel’s throat. “Holy shit, Cas.”

“Yes,” Castiel chuckles, kissing Dean’s temple. “Holy.”

-+-

He doesn’t bother to crawl out of bed until noon, with the sun high in the sky and cool air wafting in through the window. Blinking awake, Dean finds Castiel still half asleep, lazily watching Dean with his eyes nearly closed. At night, he’s beautiful—in the daylight, Castiel is ethereal, his touch filled with the love Dean knows is there, has been there all along.

With a limp hand, Dean touches his cheek, smiling when Castiel’s eyes meet his fully. So blue, like the ocean waiting outside, like the sky that’s been there for eons. Legs tangled and chests close, Dean kisses him, and hums when Castiel kisses back, still tasting of expensive whiskey and sleep. Dean isn’t probably much better off, but Castiel doesn’t seem to mind.

“Hey,” Dean whispers.

Quiet, Castiel smiles, resting his hand over Dean’s hip. “Good morning, Dean.”

Humming, Dean tucks his head under Castiel’s chin, placing a kiss to the notch of his throat. “Think they heard us sneak out?”

A laugh, soft. “Even if they know, I don't think they’ll mind.” Warm lips kiss the top of his head. “I think all that matters is that we’re happy, and we came back without any scratches.”

“Hell of a hickey though.” Dean touches the dark purple spot decorating Castiel’s collar, the one Castiel hasn’t healed ever since Dean put it there himself. A badge of honor, maybe—or, some of Dean’s humanity has rubbed off on him. “You sure you want this life, Cas? There’s probably other people out there, or angels…”

Castiel sighs, his breath ruffling Dean’s hair. “You’re the only being in this universe that I could ever fathom spending the rest of eternity with,” he says. Dean blushes, thankful that he can’t see Castiel’s face. “Life is cruel and unjust, but if there’s any place I’d want to witness the world and share pain with, it’s you.”

“Stupid,” Dean laughs, not unkindly. “Guess that makes two of us, then.”

Lifting Dean by his chin, Castiel looks him in the eye—and if Dean were to die right now, then at least it was in Castiel’s arms, surrounded by Castiel’s love. But the world doesn’t end, and God doesn't strike him down. The wind blows, the sun rises, and Dean is in love.

And finally, he knows that Castiel loves him in return.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I've been steadily plugging away at this for a bit and now that I'm on vacation for the rest of the year, I finished it up! Thanks to Ana for reading this over to make sure I didn't shove my foot in my mouth! Now I should get started on the Tropefest 5k and keep working on Pinefest and my book and screaming_bird.gif.
> 
> Title is from the Eric Church song, who continues to taunt me with Dean and deancas music. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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